


of diving in too deep

by tosca1390



Category: Kaichou wa Maid-sama!
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-21
Updated: 2012-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-05 19:00:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“This isn’t an excuse to harass me,” she murmurs. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>“You just tell me when to stop,” he says, amused.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	of diving in too deep

*

“Do you ever get tired of fighting?”

Misaki sits back in her chair, staring darkly in Usui’s direction. The student council room is empty, but the air is still thick and heavy with the remainders of today’s fights and complaints. How these boys ever got anything done before she got here, she’ll never understand. 

“No,” she snaps, pressing her chin into her hands. Her fingers slide over her temples, the beginnings of a headache there. 

He laughs, leaning lazily against the windowsill. “Now you’re just trying to be contrary.”

“Can I help you?” she asks sharply, her hair falling into her eyes. 

Glancing at her, he smiles. She knows this one; it’s _hers_ , as Satsuki and Sakura would gleefully squeal (if she talked about this _thing_ at all), and it makes her uncomfortable, unsettles her stomach. The flush rises on her throat. 

“You always help me, Ayuzawa,” he murmurs. 

“You’re a piece of work,” she mutters. She drops her forehead to her desk and sighs, shutting her eyes. “I’m a piece of work. Everything is too much work,” she adds softly. 

Every meeting since her reelection has been like this, fighting tooth and nail; the first-year boys still grumpy and baring their teeth at her, the girls fluttering and shy. She can barely deal with the third-years, completely checked-out and headed for graduation as they are. The school trip is coming up, and between that and whatever this _thing_ with Usui is and work and worrying over her mother and her sister – she’s tired. She’s always tired, and it kills her to think it. 

It’s quiet and soft between them. She presses her cheek to the cool desk and covers her eyes with her hand. “Did you leave?” she asks after a moment. 

“Of course I didn’t leave,” he says; his voice is much closer. 

She peeks between her fingers. He’s standing at the side of the desk, hip pressed against the edge. A broad hand slides over her hair, his fingers twining in the dark strands. She can feel the flush rise on her cheeks. 

“This isn’t an excuse to harass me,” she murmurs. 

“You just tell me when to stop,” he says, amused. 

“What’s the point?” she sighs. He shifts to sit on the desk, his other hand slides over her shoulder blades. “You never listen.”

“I always listen,” he counters, his knuckles kneading into the knot between her shoulders. 

“I hate you,” she mutters. 

The hand in her hair slides away to take her hand away from her eyes, twining their fingers together. “I know,” he says easily. It never bothers him, when she says it. 

There’s something reassuring about that, she thinks as she lifts her head and sits up in her chair. The hand between her shoulders slides over her throat, fingers light on the nape of her neck. 

“You’re a lot of work,” she says sharply, face hot. 

He just shrugs and smiles, eyes darkening. Shadows from the blinds slide across the desk. He leans in and kisses her, mouth opening over hers. She shuts her eyes and shivers, tightening her grip around his fingers. 

“People could see, you idiot,” she murmurs, even as he shifts closer, his hand cupping her cheek. 

“No one is at school this late except for you. You know that,” he says, kissing her again. He’s smiling again, always smiling when he looks at her, and she doesn’t know what to do with it. His fingers thread through her hair, warm against her temple. 

Impulsively, she rises, placing a hand on his chest. For a moment, she at a height with him. Their eyes meet; her fingers curl into his starched button-down shirt. She thinks of her birthday, the cake he made with his own hands, for _her_ , and flushes. 

“Hey,” he murmurs softly. “Pres. What’s up with you?”

She flushes, pushes at his chest. “Nothing,” she mutters. 

His fingers curl at her cheek before he leans away and straightens. “Okay. Coming over tonight?” he asks, pushing away from the desk. He walks towards the door, picking up her bag along with his. 

“I can’t,” she says, a strange gnawing in her stomach. “Not tonight.”

Usui waits at the door as she gathers her jacket. She tucks her hair behind her ears, keeping her gaze to the floor. “Your word is gold, Pres,” he drawls. 

She rolls her eyes and stalks out of the student council room, him following behind. He holds onto her bag the whole way to her house, and she has to say, she doesn’t mind.

*

“No theme today?” Misaki asks dryly.

Satsuki giggles and pushes the regular white and black maid uniform towards her. It’s early on Saturday morning, too early if she’s being honest. The week at school has left her more exhausted than usual, and at night, when she’s supposed to be studying, she’s distracted by Usui, by the mysteries, by his nightly phone calls. 

Partly she is annoyed with herself. A small part of her wonders whether she can’t just try to enjoy something for once in her life. 

“Idiot,” she mutters as she changes into the uniform. The lace itches and the skirt is too puffy from a trip to the dry cleaners, but whatever, it’s work. It’s necessary. 

“Someday it won’t be,” she says under her breath as she ties the apron strings. 

“Someday what won’t be?”

She shrieks and turns around. “What are you _doing_ , you pervert?” she exclaims, watching horrified as Usui slips inside and pulls the curtain shut behind him. 

“Working,” he says with an easy shrug. She’s very aware of the garter still on the little table next to her, her hair loose over her shoulders. “Manager called me and asked me to come in.”

“Fine. But what the hell are you doing in _here_?” she hisses, a flush rising over her throat. She backs up as he moves in. 

He smiles, passing a hand through his hair. “Wanted to see you.”

Her hands fist at her sides. Her back hits the wall as he approaches her, his hands falling to her waist. “How can you just _say_ things like that?” she asks, flustered. 

His eyes darken, fingers toying in the lacy edges of her apron. His thigh slides between hers, mouth ducking near hers. “Why shouldn’t I say what I know is true?”

“You’re so annoying sometimes,” she breathes, raising her hands to his chest. 

“Only sometimes? I’m improving in Misa-chan’s eyes,” he teases as he slides his mouth over hers. 

The flush is warm over her throat and cheeks as she tips her head back. She opens her mouth to his and sighs, her hands fisting in his t-shirt. The café is thirty minutes from opening; she can hear the distant clinking of the other girls as they set the tables, their laughter soft in her ears. 

One of his hands, warm and lean, slides over her full skirt and spans her thigh. His fingers skim at the hem of her thigh-highs up to bare skin, the juncture of her hip. She shifts against him, tugging him closer. 

“You are the worst,” she breathes into his mouth, even as her fingers curl at his throat and her teeth press at his lip. 

He laughs then, fingertips pressing between her thighs, against the fabric of her panties and her clit. She’s wet, and it curls through her, the soft rumble of his voice at her skin and the jut of his thumb at her slick skin. 

“I just know what Pres wants,” he says, low and warm against her jaw. 

He slides his fingers under her panties to touch slick skin. She sighs and arches into his hand, her hips shifting against his. “We have to work, idiot,” she says, the breath stuttering in her chest. 

A smile curls against her jaw, his teeth light on her skin. “I don’t think this will take long,” he murmurs on her skin. 

She swallows hard, the heat unfurling in her belly and flushing her bare skin. Her fingers drag up the nape of his neck and dig into his shoulders as he slides two fingers inside her and curls them. He mouths up her jaw to her ear, murmuring softly. The warmth on her cheeks radiates against his face, his tongue a soft cool relief on her skin. 

He’s right; it doesn’t take long. She’s on edge and exhausted, and soon he’s kissing her, swallowing her low moans as she comes. His name is first on her tongue and she grabs at his shoulders, hauling him closer and biting at his mouth even as his hand slides from her panties and spans her thigh, sticky and hot on her skin. 

“I’m coming over tonight,” she breathes against him, her teeth pressing at his bottom lip. 

He meets her gaze, green eyes very dark, and narrow. “Good,” he murmurs. 

She can hear Satsuki calling, and she flushes. One of his hands disappears from her body only to slide over her thigh. He kneels, the garter dangling from his fingers. 

“There,” he murmurs, sliding the garter up her thigh. He leans in, his mouth grazing her knee. 

“You really are a pervert,” she murmurs, touching her throat. The flush refuses to recede. 

He grins up at her, rising once more. “I have cookies to bake,” he murmurs, throwing her a wave before he slips through the curtain. 

For her whole shift, she thinks the other girls can sense it. When she’s in the kitchen, he just smiles and hands her plates of food, and she glares and snaps; anything is better than the press of words on her tongue, the horrible thudding in her heart. 

*

It’s a chilly night; true winter is just a few weeks away. But Usui’s apartment is warm, and he has her stretched across the couch, her hands on his bare skin and his mouth dragging along her throat. 

“We could have done this in the council room, you know,” he murmurs as her hands slide and scrape over his shoulders and chest. 

Misaki tilts her head back against the arm of the couch, skin warm and fingertips trembling. “Not in a million years,” she says shakily. 

His hands slide over the curve of her breast, to the waist of her skirt. Her blouse is rucked up to her ribs, open at her throat. “I bet I could convince you,” he says, smiling against her throat. 

Her hair slides across her cheek, her brow. She shuts her eyes and twines her fingers into his hair. “I don’t like you that much,” she mutters even as his hands slide under her skirt and drag her stockings over her thighs and knees. 

Sitting up, he kneels on the couch, slowly peeling her stocking into his hands. His eyes are very dark and wide in the dim light of his living room. She feels as if this is a breath, a pause before some great precipice. 

“Yes you do,” he says, a small smile playing at his lips. 

She scowls as he tosses her stocking aside and settles between her thighs, his chin resting on her bare stomach. Her skirt folds and shifts under him, sliding over her thighs with the path of his hands. “Don’t get cocky,” she says, the flush high on her throat. 

Usui laughs, a low sort of growl. His mouth slides over the curve of her belly. She shifts her heels against his sides, her fingers tangled in his hair. “I’m seeing the President. How could I not?”

Misaki drags her nails over his scalp, shaking her head. “You’re a mystery, you jerk.”

“Not to you,” he says, suddenly very serious. His mouth turns down, his hands tighten around her thighs. “I don’t want to be a mystery to you.”

She wets her lips, watching him quietly for a moment. In the dim light he seems young, soft. There is so much she wants to ask, about the lost family in England, the abandonments they share in common, his young life; she doesn’t know how to ask, what questions. 

“You just – you know _everything_ about me,” she stumbles out at last, voice pitching up too high. “And – and I feel like –“

He pushes himself over her body and kisses her, mouth slow and warm against hers. She shuts her eyes as his hands cup her face, her jaw; his body rests over hers, pressing her back into the couch. There’s the slide of his ankle between hers, the press of warm bare skin to hers. Breath catches at her throat; she twists her fingers in his hair, keeping him close. 

“What is there to know of before?” he murmurs as their mouths part, a slow aching sound in her ears. “I wasn’t anything until I met you.”

She can’t suppress the blush rising on her face, the curl of her fingers in his hair. “Stop it,” she mutters. 

“No,” he says, serious and quiet. His gaze is very close to hers. “I won’t stop, not with you, Ayuzawa.”

This is the closest they’ve come yet to any sort of verbalization. It scares her, and thrills her. There’s a sharp ache lingering in her middle, heavy with the press of his weight on her. 

Licking her lips, she leans up, pressing her mouth to his jaw. “You’re an idiot,” she says, voice cracking on the last word. 

She feels the smile against her skin, the shift of his fingers at her temple and in her hair. “As Pres says.”

They don’t talk for a long time, after that. Sometimes, it’s better that way. 

*


End file.
